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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015551">Is This Man...?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode'>LydianNode</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/royaltyisshe64/pseuds/royaltyisshe64'>royaltyisshe64</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Friendship, Gen, Language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:26:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode, https://archiveofourown.org/users/royaltyisshe64/pseuds/royaltyisshe64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A cruel article in the "New Music Express" brings Brian to Freddie's doorstep early in the morning.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>platonic frian - Relationship, platonic maycury - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Is This Man...?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddieofhearts/gifts">freddieofhearts</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy birthday to @LadyAmaranthine! Long may she reign!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>18 June, 1977</p><p> </p><p>Alone and at peace, Brian gazed up at the vast, open skies of Tenerife.</p><p>The telephone rang.</p><p>Impossible.</p><p>It rang again, and again, until Brian's eyes flew open and he sucked in a deep breath as he recognised the drab walls of his own flat and the shrill sound of someone disturbing his sleep.</p><p>After four bloody months on the road...</p><p>Twisting around in the bed, Brian scrambled to pick up the receiver before whoever was annoying him had time to ring off. And whoever it was, was going to get an earful.</p><p>"Brian, hi, it's Roger."</p><p>Brian grimaced and held the phone between his jaw and his shoulder. He stretched, grumbling into the receiver. "Roger, what on earth could you POSSIBLY want?"</p><p>"Have you read the latest NME?"</p><p>"Have you lost your mind?" The bedside clock showed that it was 7:15 in the morning. "We all agreed to give ourselves at least a month's space, and now—"</p><p>"You haven't read it, then." Roger's voice was unusually strident, the way he sounded when he needed to throw something out a window to vent his frustrations. "Listen, something's happened and you really need to go see Freddie."</p><p>"Freddie?"</p><p>"Pay attention. Fuck, I dropped my cigarettes, one second." Familiar sounds followed: the clink of a lighter being opened, a moment's crackling, and a long inhalation followed by a satisfied little moan.</p><p>Brian smiled despite himself. He knew everyone's resonances, could pick his bandmates out in pitch darkness. Roger was cigarettes being lit and forks tapping on restaurant tables. John was the scribble of pencil on paper. Freddie was the twisting of a body never completely at rest.</p><p>Freddie.</p><p>Brian blinked, then turned his attention back to the phone. "Why do I need to go see Freddie?"</p><p>"Some fucker from the NME did an interview with him and printed the most ridiculous fucking hatchet job in the world, with the title of 'Is This Man a Prat?' I was hoping Freddie hadn't seen it, but I phoned him and...yeah, he's seen it."</p><p>That was probably a nightmare in itself. There was a reason Brian avoided the press. In general it amused him how much Roger kept up, but today was not going to be one of those days.</p><p>"I still don't see why—"</p><p>"He's at the flat all by himself. Oh, he's pretending to be just fine, <em>darling, </em>but he doesn't fool me. Plus, David's fucked off somewhere; they had a row toward the end of the tour."</p><p>"Why don't you go?"</p><p>"I'm visiting Mum. Rather a long drive back. And anyway, he needs someone calm."</p><p>"What about John, then?"</p><p>"John, to whom Freddie divulges precisely zero personal feelings? John, who cannot cope with Freddie being anything other than HIS protector? You know that Freddie would dine on one of his used ballet slippers rather than give John a moment's pain."</p><p>Right, then.</p><p>"You've convinced me. I'll go, but first I'll get a copy and read it."</p><p>"Don't. I mean, do read it, but get there as fast as you can. He sounds fucking AWFUL, Brian." Roger coughed, and in his mind's eye Brian could see him raging back and forth as far as the cord would let him.</p><p>"I'll call after I see him. Don't worry, Rog."</p><p>"Yeah." A pause. "Thanks."</p><p>"See you." Brian hung up the phone, his brow furrowed with concern and confusion. For Roger to be concerned enough to contact Freddie over this article, it must be pretty awful. Just the title was enough to send Brian's heart racing angrily.</p><p>He voted against cleaning himself up—the tiny flat only had a tub, and there was no time for a bath—and chose instead to put on clean clothing. There was just time to leave Chrissy a note in case he didn't get back by the time she was done at school, then he rushed downstairs and hailed a cab.</p><p>Noting that the driver recognised him, Brian chose an address a few blocks from Stafford Terrace and strode purposefully onward once the cab was out of sight. With his heart in his throat and an impending sense that he was very much out of his depth, Brian knocked on the door.</p><p>"Fuck off, David." The words were full of irritation but the voice held the dampness of tears.</p><p>"It's, uh, Brian." He winced at the hesitation in his reply.</p><p>"Brian? One moment." Several, many moments later, the door opened to reveal Freddie, face newly washed and slim shoulders held firmly back. "You're never up and about this early—what brings you to Kensington at this hideous hour?"</p><p>In a moment of unadulterated panic at being caught with no plans, Brian blurted out the truth. "Roger called. He's worried about you. Something about an article in the NME?"</p><p>Although Freddie rolled his eyes, something else in his expression hinted at relief to see his morning-averse guitarist on his doorstep. "Oh, THAT. Come in and have some tea. You'll need to MAKE it, of course, dear, but..."</p><p>Brian headed for the tiny kitchen and put water on to boil. Freddie handed him the caddy of Japanese tea with an arched eyebrow. To be sure, Brian's tastes were far more pedestrian, running to PG Tips, but he accepted the offer with a grateful nod as he poured hot water into the cups to warm them.</p><p>"I don't actually subscribe to NME, so I haven't read the article," he said. "So perhaps I should read yours and we can..." Can, WHAT? "We can talk about it."</p><p>"It's absolute rubbish and I'm not giving it a second thought." The brave words were belied by the little shudder that Freddie failed to conceal. "I should buy a parrot for the express purpose of lining his cage with the rag."</p><p>"Hmm." Brian poured water into the teapot and watched as the tea begain to steep. "Still, if I'm going to know what we're talking about, I should at least give it a glance."</p><p>Freddie passed the paper to Brian. His hand trembled a little before he brought it to his lips to cover his teeth. "Have at it. Utter trash. And to think John Reid gave him a nice luncheon during this interview!"</p><p>Not deceived at all by the studied carelessness, Brian flipped through the pages until he saw the wretched headline.</p><p>
  <em>Is this man a prat?</em>
  
</p><p>"Jesus," Brian muttered between clenched teeth. He leaned against the stove. The gas knob pushed against his bony hip but he paid it no mind as he read the scurrilous article.</p><p>
  <em> Bitch!<br/>
...Rock and roll spiv...<br/>
His answer is to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible...<br/>
</em>
  <em>...ill-advised, inaccurate, not to mention unkind words...<br/>
</em>
  <em>...bitchy rhetoric...</em>
</p><p>"I need to sit down. Get the tea, Fred, would you?"</p><p>He took a seat at the little table, scanning for some sign that the writer had at least a modicum of decency.</p><p>
  <em>...irrepressible exhibitionist...<br/>
</em>
  <em>...how grovelling of you to say that...</em>
</p><p>He could hear the rattle of teacups as Freddie brought the tray over, and when he looked up he could see how desperately Freddie was trying to disguise his misery.</p><p>"There's one good bit. You'll know it when you get there," Freddie muttered. He poured the tea and sat astride one of the chairs, eyes focused on Brian's face as he continued to read.</p><p>
  <em>And my opinion on "Races" there are only two worthwhile songs, "Tie Your Mother Down" and "White Man..."</em>
</p><p>Startled, Brian raised his head and met Freddie's sardonic, <em>told you so</em> grin. "Fred, that's not true! My GOD, 'Somebody to Love' is gonna last forever, and...and..."</p><p>Freddie shrugged and sipped his tea. "The really sad part is that I went on and on about you, and Roger and Deacy: about what you bring to the band and the incredible musicianshp and intelligence you have. But naturally he didn't bother putting THAT in. Why bother with the truth when it conflicts with the narrative?"</p><p>Beneath the cavalier gestures and well-chosen words, Brian could see the undercurrent of self-loathing. Freddie was stewing in it. Marinating in it.</p><p>"I'm so sorry, Freddie. That wasn't fair at all."<br/>
<br/>
"What for? You didn't write it." Freddie dropped his gaze suddenly, as if the tabletop were somehow more interesting than the conversation. He set down the teacup quickly, too quickly, and liquid sloshed over the edges, then placed his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.</p><p>"I'm the one who's sorry," Freddie choked out. "I'm sorry that I'm such a useless ponce that I couldn't make him understand how wonderful YOU are. That he found my loyalty 'unexpected' when it should be so fucking obvious. Christ, I'm just a liability and I'm so, so sorry..."</p><p>Tears began to trickle between the slender fingers. With a pained gasp, Brian rose from his chair and hurried over to Freddie. "Don't, don't," he pleaded as he dropped to the floor at Freddie's feet and sat there, tailor-fashion, heedless of the uncomfortably tight fold of his legs. "C'mon, Freddie, it's okay." He reached up and pulled Freddie's hands away so that he could clasp them in his own. They were so small, so fragile for all that they could pound out chords like the breaking of waves on the shore. "It's okay," he said again, inadequately. Where were his words now? Where were the clever turns of phrase that would take away Freddie's sorrow?</p><p>Freddie wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, childlike, and his breath came out in wet little hiccoughs. Suddenly he lurched forward, landing on his knees with a dull thump, and wrapped his arms around Brian's neck. His words, halting and tearful, tugged at Brian's heart even as Freddie's arms tugged him nearer in a frantic, clinging embrace.</p><p>"I know I'm a pretentious arsehole, with my ballet and my opera, and now I'm holding all of you back because of it. But please, please don't leave me."</p><p>Brian hugged him back. He could feel Freddie's entire body vibrating with sobs, drawn tense like a guitar string ready to snap. "Never," he whispered into the shell of Freddie's ear. "You're a genius, Freddie, you're amazing, you're PERFECT just as you are. We all love you, ballet and all. I love you."</p><p>For a moment Freddie went still, then he raised his head and gazed at Brian with sorrow radiating from swollen, tear-filled eyes. "Oh, darling," he murmured. "If only you truly did."</p><p>With all his soul, Brian cursed David for not being there, for abandoning Freddie when he was exhausted and needful. Freddie's misery was the kind that only a lover could truly assuage, but Brian was determined to give it his best attempt, feeble as it might be.</p><p>He cupped the back of Freddie's head, through the thick black hair that fell in waves despite all the straightening irons and potions in London. Tenderly, he drew Freddie's head down to his shoulder and cradled it there. Letting Freddie cry himself out seemed the best course of action.</p><p>After a few minutes, when the worst of the weeping had subsided, Freddie drew back and peered at Brian with a tenuous attempt at an apologetic smile. "I've gotten your shirt all wet," he half-sniffled as he ran his fingers through the mess he'd made.</p><p>"I've had worse," Brian replied. "C'mon, Fred, the floor's cold, let's go sit down properly." He offered Freddie a hand and they got up, hands still joined, and walked side by side to the pillow-strewn sofa. Brian sat down, Freddie halfway in his lap, and stroked his friend's hair until his breathing became calmer.</p><p>"You're okay," he soothed. "You're bloody amazing in the studio AND on the stage, and don't ever let anyone try to belittle you. They're either jealous or stupid, and we don't listen to people like that."</p><p>"Twat," Freddie said firmly between shallow breaths. "He's a twat and an idiot."</p><p>"Exactly!"</p><p>"But..." There it was again, that self-deprecating edge to his voice. "What if he's right? What if I really am just a vain, silly creature?"</p><p>"We're all vain, the whole band, mate, in case you haven't noticed. But none of us is silly. Well, Roger, sometimes."</p><p>Freddie chuckled at that, then sighed. "But there's something wrong with me, something that journalists pick up on. Maybe it's the same thing that made David walk out on me."</p><p>Completely unable to comment on the David situation—the whole being gay situation, which didn't BOTHER him but which he couldn't comprehend—Brian simply grunted and pulled Freddie even closer. The pulse that had beaten, rabbit-quick, beneath his hand began to return to a normal rate. How could anyone hurt such a heart as this one? Brian was indignant at the very thought.</p><p>Freddie squirmed for a moment until he found a comfortable position, then relaxed against Brian with a contented wriggle. "You don't have to go anywhere?" he asked hopefully.</p><p>Brian thought of his bed, of Chrissy, of a wide expanse of sky, but decided there was nowhere else he'd rather be.</p><p>"Nope," he replied breezily as he kept Freddie—this man, this precious man—safe in the circle of his arms.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here is the offending article:<br/>https://brianmay.com/freddie/nme/itmapa.html</p><p>Of note is the fact that the writer now reviews soap operas.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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